Letters From Elwood: The Silence of Cells
by Jo Z. Pierce
Summary: Jake is doing time for armed robbery. Between the long and quiet hours in his cell, and the bittersweet memories of a dream unrealized, Jake finds himself in hell. WARNING: Cursing, some sexual and violent suggestions


Jake E. Blues, lead singer of The Blues Brothers, is doing time for armed robbery. Between the long and quiet hours in his cell, and the bittersweet memories of a dream unrealized, Jake finds himself in hell.

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_Author's Note: To hear the music mentioned in this story, visit www.last.fm/music/The+Blues+Brothers+videos+1-DPYKfawYfVQ_

_Warnings: Cursing, with some sexual and violent suggestions._

* * *

**The Silence of Cells**

**by Jo Pierce**

If there was a sound in hell, it would be called silence.

Lying in his bunk, Jake was motionless as he listened to the emptiness all around him. He stared up at the ceiling tiles, but they hadn't changed much since yesterday. Even the pictures of naked women on his wall didn't change.

But what would it matter anyway? Those photos weren't real.

Then again, neither was the silence.

If he listened closely, Jake could hear a hundred or so convicts coughing or shuffling. They shifted and rolled in their creaky beds. They held conversations he could hear, but not quite make out. He even had a few conversations of his own with cellmates. And then there was the yelling. That was the worst of it. But as far as he could tell, these sounds were just static. Muffled, they echoed down the hall. Meaningless, they weren't really there.

Jake wasn't sure which was worse - the silence, or the annoying sounds that broke it.

His first two months in Joliet Correctional Facility, Jake found himself in solitary. That's what happens to the guys who use innovative approaches to assault. Those two months were rough. All alone, there was no mistaking shuffling and coughing for static. There's nothing but silence, except the noise he made himself.

Solitary was hell. But so was this.

The boredom, the loneliness, the oppressive silence was driving him crazy. It was getting to the point where he might just kill someone. Probably he'd start with that son of a bitch a few cells down.

Jake rolled over and sighed. What was he thinking? Murder just wasn't his style. Still, more than anything, Jake wanted to tell that son of a bitch to shut the hell up.

What the hell was he yelling about, anyway? As far as Jake could tell, all he ever said was "Hey!" Did that punk really think screaming was making him any friends here in the joint? If he wasn't careful, someone would really give him something to scream about. And it would involve a broom handle. The thought made Jake cringe.

He closed his eyes. It had been a whole year in Joliet. He was up for parole in two more, but you never know how parole boards were, especially with repeat offenders like him. He figured on four more years. Four more years of silence.

Why the hell was he torturing himself like this? Why count the years? They went by too slowly. Why not count the weeks, or the days? Or maybe he could count the number of cigarettes he went through.

Jake sat up and reached over to a small shelf.

"Shit. No smokes," he thought. "Where the fuck is Elwood? I need some money."

Jake flopped back in his bunk. The only thing he could count was the number of times that bastard yelled out "Hey!"

The noise of silence was making his head hurt.

* * *

"Shhhh!" Jake whispered, as he slapped Elwood on the arm and held him against the wall.

"What?" Elwood asked, without saying a word. The expression on his face said it all.

"Shhhh!" Jake repeated, this time with more urgency. Although asking Elwood to be quiet was like asking a turtle to slow down, he still warned his younger brother to be silent. The two stood motionless with their backs against the wall, as they tried to listen to the conversation in the lobby.

"Your bill comes to five hundred fifty seven dollars," an unfamiliar voice said. "Plus gratuity."

_"_It's just like we said, sir. You can put that on Jake Blues' bill." It was Mr. Fabulous' voice. There was no mistaking it. "He's the lead for the band. He'll pay for it."

Elwood looked at his brother nervously. With another slap, and without a word, Jake pointed towards the back door with his chubby little thumb.

The two brothers slipped out of the hotel, undetected, and headed straight for Elwood's 1968 Cadillac they nicknamed "The Bluesmobile." They quickly opened the doors and jumped in. As soon as he had the motor running, Elwood finally spoke up.

"We can't leave the band behind, Jake. Not with that room service bill."

"Oh yeah? Watch me," Jake said as he lit up his last cigarette and pointed towards Main Street. Elwood shook his head, then pressed down on the pedal. The Bluesmobile hit Main Street going fifty miles an hour.

"You can't just leave them, man."

"Who asked them to run up a five hundred dollar room service bill?" Jake asked, calmly and composed.

Elwood didn't respond, but his expression was scolding. It seemed to say "Jake, it ain't right." Jake knew exactly what Elwood was thinking.

"Would you trust me?" He pointed ahead towards the flickering neon sign of a local pawn shop.

* * *

Jake opened his eyes and looked around the cell. Those blondes in bikinis posted next to his bunk were just teasing him. He noticed a new crack on the wall. His stomach rumbled. Desperate for a smoke, he rechecked his shelf. Still nothing but a short stack of short letters in Elwood's handwriting.

The last letter from Elwood really annoyed the hell out of him. The band had a gig in California. They were going to The Land of Blondes and Bikinis, and he was doing time in Joliet. What's worse, it was their fault he was there to begin with. And they didn't even know it.

What the hell was he thinking? Robbing a gas station, to pay their room service bill?

"Hey!"

The familiar scream broke his concentration. Who the hell was that guy screaming at anyway? It was infuriating.

"Hey! Asshole!" Jake blurted out. "Would you shut the fuck up!?"

Normally sounds echo. In this case, silence did. It rippled through the row, like a stone thrown on water, as it moved from cell to cell. Sometimes he heard an unwelcome whisper, followed by a "Shhhh!"

Despite his assault record, Jake never picked a fight in the joint. He never had to hit anyone. He was everyone's pal. At least that's what he'd lead you to believe. In the joint, Jake wasn't even in the pecking order. He earned respect through a reputation for cool behavior and getting things done. And he was the best con-man and petty thief in the Joliet. The stocky musician could probably convince the guards to give him the keys to the front door.

Maybe that's what everyone was waiting for. They figured he'd orchestrate the best escape plan in Illinois state history. He'd just walk out the main gate.

Still, Jake was the kind of prisoner you didn't want to mess with. You couldn't predict him. And everyone knew that was the scariest type of criminal.

Now that the cell block was silent again, Jake closed his eyes and thought about the outside. The band. His brother. Decent food. The Universal Ampitheater, back in Florida.

That was one hell of a gig.

For sure, Jake thought they'd get a record deal after that show. For sure. And maybe they would have, if he hadn't landed in the slam just a few months later.

* * *

Elwood kept the motor running. He bit the inside of his cheek as he waited for Jake to leave the seedy pawn shop. What was he trying to unload? He didn't have anything worth five hundred bucks. He must have lifted a few rings or necklaces at the hotel. Elwood wondered who had the kind of jewelry you could get five hundred bucks for at some random pawn shop. It must have been the mother load.

Finally, Jake emerged from the doorway with a small brown paper bag in his hand. As he approached, he nodded to his brother. He climbed in and hit the door of the Caddy twice. It was his signal to pull out.

"Wha'dya sell, Jake?"

Jake reached over to the radio and flipped through the stations, ignoring the question.

"You got any more cigarettes?" Jake asked, already knowing the answer. Elwood shook his head, still gnawing away at the inside of his mouth.

"There's a gas station up ahead," Jake offered.

"Whad'ya get?" Elwood asked, making the next logical assumption.

"Don't worry about it."

Elwood hated being left out of the loop. Jake always had a plan, and he expected Elwood to just follow along. What annoyed Elwood the most was that he always did.

In anger, Elwood slammed his foot down on the gas.

"Slow down, man. Don't wanna attract the cops."

Elwood just sped up. Although Jake couldn't see his eyes behind dark glasses, he could tell his little brother was glaring at him.

"Hey, Motorhead," Jake said, calmly pointing out the window, as they drove past the all night gas station.

Elwood pressed down on the pedal and drove on. Jake maintained his composure as Elwood continued on with his silent tantrum.

"I need cigarettes," Jake casually noted, as he looked out the window like a tourist. Elwood offered no reply, except acceleration.

Finally, in one smooth swoop, Elwood turned the steering wheel, making a perfect 180 degree turn in the middle of Main Street. He retraced his tracks, then pulled into the gas station. The front passenger side tire hit the curb, and they bounced violently in the front seat of the Caddy.

"Wait here a minute. Keep the motor running."

Pouting, and gnawing even harder on his cheek, Elwood watched his brother walk into the station. He imagined Jake asking for a pack of Lucky Strikes, or maybe some Camels. Whatever was on sale. He watched as the attendant turned his back to get the smokes. He watched, without surprise, when Jake pulled out the handgun from his pocket and aimed it at the attendant.

"Screw this," Elwood thought to himself, shaking his head in disgust.

The tires of the Bluesmobile screeched as he pulled out of the parking lot. He imagined hearing Jake curse him.

* * *

When it was quiet, you have nothing to listen to but your own thoughts. Sometimes, those thoughts were good. Memories of the band on the road were the best.

That's what it was all about. The band. The gigs. The music. The excitement of the audience. And Jake made it all happen. The band played their instruments - their guitars and drums and keyboards. Elwood blew on his harp. And Jake played the audience.

He closed his eyes and thought about that night they played the Universal, and the first time they tried out their version of Junior Wells' song _Messin' With the Kid. _

"Hey Elwood, Elwood!"

"Yeah Jake?"

"You wanna mess with the kid?" Jake asked his brother. The improvised dialogue became part of the song. In that late night performance, Jake made it clear to the audience, and to the world, that you didn't mess with Joliet Jake. Not unless you wanted to take on a 200 pound musician with a bad attitude and a mile long rap sheet.

"Nah Jake, I know the kid real well. I don't wanna mess with him..."

"How bout you guys. In the band. You wanna mess with the kid?" The band played along, and cried out "Noooo!"

"And you out there!" Jake cried out to the audience, single handedly making each and every one of them an honorary member of the band. "You wanna mess with the kid?"

The audience ate it up, and screamed "Noooo!" from their seats. Really, they were all just crying out "More!"

* * *

Elwood came to a hard, quick stop. The front tires of the Bluesmobile rested on the sidewalk. Parallel parking wasn't a problem for him. It was just an option he didn't always feel obligated to choose.

By now, after driving several miles down Main Street, the inside of his cheek was bleeding, from the constant chewing and gnawing.

It was one thing for Jake to con his way into some cash. And he knew Jake enjoyed a little five finger discount every now and then. In fact, he expected that of his brother. But armed robbery? What was he thinking? That's easily 5 years in the slam. Or more, if something goes wrong.

And what if something did go wrong? Maybe Jake could get away with it, if he had a fast car and a gutsy driver.

Guilt sometimes manifested itself in the strangest ways. The product of a strict Catholic upbringing, Elwood felt guilty for turning his back on his brother, and not helping him commit a felony. And he also felt guilty that didn't want to think about it. Instead, he reached over to the radio to turn up the volume. He needed something to drown out the sound of his own guilty thoughts.

That's when he saw it. It was that little brown paper bag, now abandoned on the floor. As he opened it to peek inside, he heard muffled metal clinking.

Bullets. A sealed box of bullets.

Elwood shook his head.

It figured.

* * *

Lying in bed, Jake was struck once again by the silence. It was worse than solitary. This was the silence you heard when no one wanted to talk to you. Out of fear, or respect, it didn't make much difference.

He started to kick the metal shelf. The letters, empty cigarette packs, and matches tumbled to the ground. He kicked the shelf again, just to hear the echo. Then he kicked it until it broke.

As he heard someone cry out "Hey!" from a few cells down, he immediately regretted breaking the silence. It was funny how feelings of regret worked on Jake.

Jake never thought about ending it all. Not until that moment. And it scared him a little. But regret overwhelmed him.

He probably lost that chance at a record deal. He let the band down. And he let his brother down. And those were the only things that ever meant anything to him.

Maybe he'd pick a fight with some nasty dude in the yard. It could be an assisted suicide by jail fight. Or maybe he'd get a hold of a gun. If he could charm or con the door keys off a prison guard, maybe he could get a gun. Then again, with his luck that gun wouldn't be loaded, either.

As thoughts of suicide ran through his mind, he wondered why it wasn't a blonde running naked through his cell. Then he thought about the nuns back at the orphanage. Suicide was a sin, wasn't it?

"Man, guess you ain't getting into heaven," he whispered to himself, sarcastically. Then again, he knew that rotting away in the cells of Joliet, without music, was as close to hell as he ever was going to get.

* * *

Without looking, Elwood backed out into Main Street, and headed back towards the gas station.

"Jake, keep your cool," Elwood thought, more as a prayer than as a command.

As he approached the station, he saw the red flashing lights of the Illinois State Police. His instincts told him to speed up and outrun them. But then he realized his mistake. He was used to seeing flashing lights in his rear view mirror. This time, they weren't.

He slowed down as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. Immediately, he realized that there was no need to actually drive by the station anymore. Jake was already up against the back of a police car, with his hands down and legs spread.

As Elwood made the next right hand turn, he looked over his shoulder. The cops were in the process of reminding Jake that he had the right to remain silent.

* * *

As a heavy sleeper, Jake never woke when the guards called out the names of the other cons. Mail call was never something he looked forward to, anyway. But for some reason, today was different. Maybe he was desperate for the cash stuffed in one of Elwood's letters. Smokes didn't come cheap in the joint, after all. Or maybe he was desperate for the letters Elwood wrote. He was the one thing Jake had going for him, and the one reason he didn't end it all, long ago.

He rolled over, then forced himself out of the top bunk. He leaned against the bars on the doorway, waiting for his turn.

"Blues," the guard called out. It was unnecessary, since Jake was standing right there in front of him. Taking the letter, he walked back over the older ones that were now scattered across the floor. He slowly climbed back up into his bunk. From the back, he looked like a panda in jailbird blues.

Opening the envelope, the first thing he looked for was the cash. If he didn't find some in there occasionally, he would swear the guards where stealing it. Today, there was a ten. It was enough for two packs, but just barely.

He was glad that Elwood liked to write letters lately.

_August 20, 1978_

_Dear Jake,_

_I'm going to come and visit you soon. Here's ten until then._

_We're back in Chicago now. California was good. It wasn't the same without you._

_The band can't wait for you get out so we can all play again. Two more years, if you behave._

_Your brother,_

_Elwood _

Jake flicked the letter towards the empty spot on the wall where his shelf once hung, and he stuffed the ten dollar bill in his shirt pocket. He closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep. As he tried, he thought about Elwood, the band getting back together, and the crowds at the Universal Amphitheater crying out for more.

"Nope, you ain't getting to heaven," he thought, as he started to fade away. " But you sure as hell ain't staying here."


End file.
